The silence that followed the snap of the axle was of a different quality than the quiet before. It was a held breath. A predator's pause. Varka found his hand resting on the hilt of his claymore, a reflex so ingrained it felt more natural than breathing.
His bladder, however, cared nothing for predators or plots. It shrieked a protest at the lurch of his body, a fresh wave of agonizing pressure that momentarily bleached the world white at the edges. *Now we’re well and truly stuck,* was the first, pathetic thought, followed by a surge of pure, hot fury. He was the Grand Master. He was not supposed to be undone by his own plumbing.
Albedo was already kneeling by the ruined wheel, his gloved fingers hovering over the break in the Snezhnayan steel. He didn’t touch it. He simply looked, his eyes tracing the impossibly straight edge of the break. “The metal is sheared clean,” he said, his voice quiet but carrying with precision over the wind’s moan. “As I theorized. Not a stress fracture from the cold. A cut. Something impossibly sharp and applied with tremendous force.”
Porthos wrung his hands, his teeth chattering from a mixture of cold and fear. “A cut? But… what could do that?”
“Something we’d rather not meet,” Varka growled, forcing his body into motion. He pushed past the immediate, searing need. A commander had to command. Ignoring the truth wasn’t an option, but… bending the response to suit his own ends was a different matter. He clapped Porthos on the shoulder, a bit harder than intended. The young knight flinched.
“Right. New plan,” Varka boomed, plastering his most reassuring grin onto his face. He turned his back slightly on Albedo, as if the alchemist’s piercing logic were a physical force he could block. “Porthos. You’ve got the lightest pack and the surest feet. The carriage is a lost cause for now. I want you to continue to Springvale on foot, just as you suggested.”
Hope, fragile and bright, bloomed in Porthos’s eyes.
Varka pressed on, his voice a parade ground bellow. “Mark a clear trail for us to follow once we’ve secured the cargo. Take a waterskin and one pack of rations. Move quickly, but don’t take risks. Your primary duty is to get word to the Knights in Springvale. Tell them the Grand Master’s transport is disabled at the Dragonspine pass and we require an escort and a heavy wagon.”
It was a perfectly reasonable order. Sound, even. It got a messenger on the way, and it would get Porthos out from underfoot. More importantly, it would take at least ten minutes for the lad to gather his things and get far enough down the path to be out of sight. Ten minutes. An eternity. A lifetime. Heaven itself.
“Understood, Grand Master!” Porthos saluted, his relief palpable. He scurried to the back of the broken carriage to retrieve his gear.
Varka allowed himself to breathe out. He could already picture it: a quick, discreet stroll behind the largest of the ‘sliced’ boulders…
“An inadvisable strategy, Grand Master.”
Albedo’s voice cut through the burgeoning relief like a shard of ice. He had risen to his feet and was watching Varka, his expression utterly flat. The sketchbook was tucked under his arm, forgotten.
“It is?” Varka asked, keeping his tone light. “Seems prudent to get a message out.”
“If we were merely victims of circumstance, yes,” Albedo countered, taking a step closer. “But we are not. The rockslide was manufactured. The axle was sabotaged. These are not separate incidents of bad luck. They are a sequence. A sequence implies a thinking adversary.”
Varka’s jaw tightened. He knew Albedo was right, but acknowledging it meant abandoning his one, golden opportunity. “All the more reason to get word to our Knights.”
“On the contrary,” Albedo said, his gaze unwavering. “You are sending a lone man, a driver with no combat training, into a kill-zone. An adversary capable of slicing solid rock and shearing a steel axle will not be troubled by a single, frightened scout. You are not sending for help. You are sending them a target.”
Each word was a nail hammered into the coffin of Varka’s desperate plan. The worst part was the impeccable logic. Varka, the veteran of a hundred battles, was being tactically outmaneuvered by an alchemist and his own protesting kidneys.
“He will be fine,” Varka insisted, his voice losing its jovial edge. “He’ll be quick.”
“And what is the purpose of this ‘quick’ scout?” Albedo pressed, his tone still maddeningly calm. “If the path is clear, our adversary has simply left, in which case we are in no immediate danger and can afford to travel together. If the path is not clear, then Porthos walks directly into whatever trap they have prepared for us next. This action serves no logical purpose, unless…” Albedo paused, his head tilting again in that unnervingly analytical way. “Unless the goal is simply to reduce the number of people in our immediate vicinity for a short period of time.”
The accusation hung in the air, unspoken but clear. Varka felt a flush of heat crawl up his neck. Did Albedo know? Impossible. But the man saw everything in terms of motive and result, and Varka’s hidden motive was creating an illogical result.
Before he could formulate a response, a sharp clatter echoed from high up the scree slope to their left.
It was not the sound of a large rockslide. It was small. A handful of pebbles, perhaps, dislodged by the wind. Or a boot.
Every instinct honed by decades of service screamed to life. Varka’s hand, which had never really left his blade, now gripped it tight. The hair on his arms stood on end. The world snapped into sharp, deadly focus. The wind, the groan of the broken carriage, Porthos freezing mid-step with a half-filled waterskin in his hand. The overwhelming pressure in his abdomen was still there, a throbbing agony, but it was suddenly secondary. A vulnerability to be managed, not a need to be met.
Albedo hadn't moved, but his eyes were fixed on the slope. “A sequence,” he murmured again, confirming the thought that now blared in Varka’s mind. *They’re still here. They’re watching.*
The jovial mask fell away completely, replaced by the grim face of the Knight of Boreas. Varka’s voice was low and resonant with command. “Porthos. Drop it. You’re with me.”
The boy obeyed instantly, letting the waterskin fall to the dusty ground.
Varka turned to Albedo. “You, stay with the research materials. They seem to be the most likely target for Snezhnayan agents.” He finally gave a name to the unseen enemy, and saying it aloud made the threat feel solid, graspable. He could fight the Fatui. He understood their methods.
“The horses are also a significant asset,” Albedo noted coolly, his gaze scanning the opposite side of the pass. “They represent our only advantage in mobility.”
Two of them. Watching from the slopes. Boxing them in. Herding them.
The trap wasn’t just the rockslide and the broken wheel. The trap was this exact spot. This small, exposed section of road, with nowhere to run and, Varka realized with a fresh, internal spike of panic, nowhere to hide.
His simple, biological need had just been upgraded to a Class-A tactical liability. If it came to a fight, he would be compromised. Slowed. Distracted. A weakness his enemy could and would exploit. The casual cruelty of it was breathtaking. To fell the Grand Master not with a blade, but with a full bladder. It felt less like a Snezhnayan military operation and more like a personal insult.
He drew his claymore. The familiar weight was only a partial comfort. He stood beside the broken carriage, a giant pinioned in place, and scanned the silent, watching rocks. The cold gnawed at him, but it wasn't the wind. It was the chilling certainty that his every move was being observed by an enemy who had turned the very landscape, and his own body, against him.